Seeds of Memory, Fading AwayPart 1
by Zandoz
Summary: House of 1000 Corpses Devil's Rejects fan fiction. Some wishful thinking on my part. Baby survives the fatal shootout...or does she? The aftermath of the Devil's Rejects.
1. Death and Rebirth

A black void. Floating in nothingness and cradled in snatches of fond memories, of loved faces somehow unfamiliar but evoking a sense of peace and security. Breathe, dream, draw nourishment through the tubes and needles inserted into her body. An occasional twitch or eyelid flicker, then it was back to the comforting arms of Morpheus, the Sandman...

Something changed, and the darkness began to clear away like fog on summer morning. Up she ascended, through the layers of unconsciousness and she began to feel pain, sharp agonizing pain, and hear voices coming from Outside, then her big blue eyes flew open and strangely enough, focused for the first time in weeks and weeks. She cast her blue-green gaze around the sterile room, the stainless steel equipment and white-painted walls, then to the scary looming figures surrounding her. She knew none of them, or where she was at, and began gasping like a rabbit in a snare, her eyes rolling this way and that like a spooked horse.

The screaming began. High-pitched, wailing, bloodcurdling screaming. She hurt, oh Lord she was hurting, all over her body, she was hungry and thirsty and scared. Her arms flailed out, once-strong arms of action now wasted with her bedfastness but still putting bruises on the restraining hands trying to calm her. Crying out from their strong grip on her tender flesh they eased up on her somewhat, and her thrashing subsided as her depleted energy was quickly spent.

"Wha...wha...where am I," she managed to speak. The physicians in the room blared their eyes--they had thought she would be a vegetable for the rest of her life, unable to comprehend or move.

One of the bolder of the lot stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Ah, you're in the Ruggsville County Medical Facility."

The young woman digested that a moment, then looked down at her person. She was bandaged over most of her tanned, sleek body, a cast on her left leg and right forearm and she blinked in shock. How had she gotten so badly wounded? She took a deep breath and whimpered in sudden pain, like knives sticking in her side. With her better arm she reached up to touch her head and found most of it shaved and bandaged as well. Brow furrowing, she tried to recall what had happened and to her horror, found nothing. In fact, she didn't even know who she was.

"Do you remember anything," the doctor asked her, a cold sadness in his tone. Why would he sound like that?

"No," she whispered, a slimy creeping terror sliding over her very bones.

"What is your name," his colleague, a younger man in spectacles, queries.

"I...I don't know," she responds hopelessly, glancing from face to face. The nurses turn away from her bewildered, pitiful gaze and many of the medics simply watch her scornfully. Why weren't they more understanding? Aren't doctors supposed to care about their patients? Then she saw the police officers emerging from the background, and their expressions were positively hostile. The woman tried shifting in her bed and more pain went through her, leaving her gasping. 

"Miss Vera-Ellen Johns," announces a very young officer, putting his sunglasses in his shirt pocket. Despite his youthful appearance he seemed to carry quite an air of authority, even though his huge sideburns looked a bit ridiculous. "Or should I say, Angel Baby Firefly?" He approached her bedside clenching his jaw and studying her face for any possible reaction. She slowly shook her damaged head in genuine puzzlement, for he didn't seem to believe what she said. "No? Doesn't ring any bells? Well how about Otis B. Driftwood? Eve Wilson? Better yet, here's some pictures of your victims, recognize any o' them?" He shoved into her field of vision the mangled corpses of dozens of people, many of them young women, horribly abused all of them.

The woman turned her head in horror, her stomach churning. Did they think she did these things? "Please...I don't know what yer talking about. Please can I have some water?" After a few moments one of the nurses pours a cup of water and holds it out shakily to the patient, who takes it gratefully and drinks it down. She noted how the nurse backed away like lightning, as if the heavily bandaged female would kill her right then and there.

"You don't know who I am either, then," the officer says. "Dobson, now acting Sheriff since your clan killed Sheriff Wydell. I can almost believe this weak, snivelling thing ain't Vera-Ellen, a she-wolf among sheep." He bent over her, his gaze full of restrained anger and hate. "Won't matter none, that's the body that killed its way across several states, and it's gonna fry. Yep, you can bet on that, bitch."

"Officer, that's enough," the doctor in charge says, stepping in front of the cop. "She's still a patient under our care." 

The police finally let the patient be, and one of the nurses administered some painkillers through an IV which left her boneless and spacy. She let them do as they would; she'd worry about what would happen to her later. She only half-heeded the physicians and attendants talking over her head while they re-dressed her terrible wounds and fed her through a tube.

"What d'you think they'll do," asked one of the older nurses. "Will they have us fix this broken gal so's they can turn around and execute her?"

"Shhh, she can hear you," hissed another with Mexican features.

"I don't think it'll matter much, Maria," said the doctor in charge. "But we have no control over the law or the courts. We can only do what we can do."

"I hate to see what'll happen if they get em both together," the senior nurse declares. She was obviously the staff busybody.

"You don't mean...," Maria gasped.

"Yeah, one of the bastards survived too." 

"Ellen? Wake up, Ellen," came a gentle voice. It was Nurse Busybody propping the young woman's ravaged body up. A steaming tray was set before her and the smells of hot food drifted up her nostrils. Her belly began rumbling at once and she clumsily reached for the fork with her not-as-damaged left hand and dropped it in her lap. "Well, you must be gettin better," the nurse said bemusedly. "You're eager enough for that food. Here, lemme help you." Grunting, the patient groped until she got the utensil back in her hand and stabbed at the salisbury steak hanging out in the middle of the plastic tray, almost causing it to slide up over the side. "Here, now," the older woman admonishes, snatching the fork away and producing a rounded table knife which she cuts the meat with. She then opened the carton of milk provided and sticks a straw in it while Ellen chases the bits of steak and gravy around her tray but says nothing.

The lady finally gets some of it to her mouth, chews rapturously and swallows, feeling the solid matter go down her esophagus and into her stomach. Ohh, that was wonderful. Only after she'd eaten her fill of salisbury steak, mashed potatoes and jello did she notice the beefy orderlies watching her like hawks. What, did they think she would leap off the bed and murder the nurse right then and there? There must be some mistake, surely. Perhaps her family would come claim her and take her home, wherever that was.

After lunch some more people appeared, this time to ask her questions and submit her to a battery of tests. They were intended to find out the extent of her amnesia, and it seems she remembered nothing of her life, nothing at all. She remembered how to speak, and that was about it.

The psychologists exchanged looks with each other, scribbled on their clipboards and left shaking their heads.

Then another man came, flashing a fake-friendly smile and chatted with her a while. He told her his name was Dr. West. "I want to show you some pictures, just to see if they jolt your mind into remembering. Do you mind?"

"No," she replies, but she sensed it wouldn't have made a difference, he was merely being polite. She destested Dr. West already.

He flipped one out of the small stack he had. It was a police photo of a lean, hardened man with long stringy hair and wearing a cocky sneer. She stared at it for a long while, searching with her eyes and mind, but there was nothing. Blank. She shook her head, deflated. He put another photo up, this one of a large surly individual in clown makeup, but after an initial twitch she didn't recognize him either. "How about this one? Surely this might help you," the man said, flipping up a picture of a highly-made-up middle-aged woman with a saucy grin. Ellen squinted at the picture biting her lower lip, but came up with no connection. She felt she should know the person, that they were important to her, but her mind was empty.

"Nothing," she whispers, tears flowing down her face. "These are my family, ain't they?"

"If you like," he answers coldly. "The family that slays together, stays together I suppose."

"What's that supposed to mean," demands the woman, growing incensed. "Where are they?"

"Miss Firefly," Dr. West begins, shutting his notebook. "It seems only fair for me to tell you, that you and your clan of miscreants are charged with the murder and/or kidnapping of over 75 persons, and possibly more to be revealed later."

"So...so you want me to remember everything so, what--so I'll confess?"

"Well, we would appreciate if you could shed some light on a lot of things."

She laughed, a bitter, hopeless laugh so unlike the cheerful, murderous giggling she was once known for. "What a fine predicament I'm in, yessirree. I can't recall a goddamned thing, I'm not anything, not a whole fucking person because I don't fucking know anything! Yet if I do gain my memory and my sanity back you'll fry me in the electric chair, izzat right? Or maybe if I'm a good little girl I'll get life in prison with no parole? Get the fuck outta my sight!" 

A few minutes later...

"What is going on here," came the head doctor's voice roughly.

"Just asking the lady some questions, Dr Branigan," the man replied smoothly, standing abruptly. Dr. Branigan swipes the photos out of his hand and peers at them.

"This is NOT to be shown to the patient, she's at a critical point. I know Dobson sent you, so cut the bullshit. I will have you forcibly removed." He throws the pictures back at Dr. West.

Clenching his jaw the skinny, overly dressed psychiatrist departs swiftly. Branigan then turns to find his subject sobbing, her face in her hands. "I shoulda just died...why didn't I die? I'm trapped...like an animal in a cage...alone..."

"What makes you think you're alone," he asked softly, and she sensed that he was a stern man, but a fair one.

"He told me--my mother and father an' brothers are all dead...I'm a thief and a killer.."

Taking her now-bony hands in his own surgeon's hands he uncovers her battered face and makes her look at him. "I can already see, that the person who committed all those crimes is not the same one who woke up in my hospital. All we can do is work with what we have. Maybe this is a way to truly start anew? Don't give up hope, Vera-Ellen."

"I like Ellen," she says.

"All right, Ellen."

A few days later after much begging from their now infamous patient they decided to remove the dressing from her head and let her look at her own face. She'd been grazed by bullets in several places, and a bullet fragment had actually penetrated her skull. She'd been in a coma for nearly two months and the nicer nurses remarked she was a living miracle; the other nurses stayed away as if Ellen had the plague. After forcing herself to remain still while the doctor snipped away at the bands they fell away and a nurse held a hand mirror out to her. She took it in her left hand (still awkward as she was right-handed) and gazed at the reflection.

Her hair had been shaved to get at the wounds, the rest hacked to get it out of the way, and angry red formerly stitched gashes decorated her pate. Her face was still blotched, more gashes marring her youthful appearance and a permanent scar on her pouty lower lip. Good Lord, she was a monster! She tossed the mirror angrily to her lap, nostrils flaring. "You're still healing," Maria spoke up helpfully. "You look better every day."

Ah well, looks weren't everything, were they? Ellen stifled sobs. 


	2. Ellen's Awakening and Journey

"Grace, what's with all the shouting outside," asked Ellen as she ate her breakfast.

"Protesters."

"What the hell are they protesting?"

"Prosecuting you as Vera-Ellen Firefly, the death penalty, legalizing pot and who knows, saving the seals or something probably."

"They're all here...for me," she asked, incredulous.

"Come see," the senior nurse helped the younger woman to her wheelchair and rolled her to the window, pulling the curtain. Lines and lines of people surrounded the building, many carrying signs with various slogans, and some deluded souls obsessed with the Fireflys as the ultimate anti-heroes, just like Charles Manson had admirers even after the Tate-LaBianca killings which put his Family on the map. Now the public had another family to obsess/loathe about--the Fireflys.

"There's another reason they're here," put in Maria. The Capital Punishment Abololitionists and the Governor have been hashing it out over you, and you'll be meeting...the other survivor."

Ellen blinked her pretty eyes for a moment, then said, "One of my family? But why? So I'll recognize him and give them a reason to kill me?"

Grace sighs. "It's Sheriff Dobson's doings, I'm afraid. He wants to get you back for killing a fellow cop."

"Well, at least let me put something clean and decent on," Ellen declares.

Dressed in a simple blue cotton dress she is rolled into one of the conference rooms, crawling with lawyers, doctors and cops. Her body was still mostly useless and she'd resigned herself to it, at least for some time. A cot was rolled in with a slender figure strapped to it, one that despite being crippled struggled mightily and cursed and bellowed in his gravelly voice. When he spotted Ellen he ceased immediatly, a look of shock and longing upon his features. "Baby..." he breathed. The hospital bed was adjusted to let him sit up and she saw he was a twisted, mangled thing, body riddled with bulletholes and missing the last two fingers on each hand. His stringy hair had been lopped to just past his ears and beard shaved to better reveal his injuries. "Aw, Baby, they got you too. You look like shit."

Ellen's mouth worked, but nothing came out. He was comforting and familiar, but she had no idea who he was.

"Angel, ain't you got nothin' to say ta me? Baby?"

"I don't know you...I feel I should, or I did, but I don't remember you."

"It's me, Otis. Your brother," his eyes searched her face. "What did they do to you, huh? Bastards," he yelled, struggling against the straps again. "Motherfuckers! Baby, it's just me an' you now, girl. We're all that's left, we can't let em get us! We gotta--"

"No," she said firmly, shaking her head. "You see where fighting got us, don't ya? No, it's time to find another way."

Otis looked at her with horror and abject sadness. "You can't mean that. You do mean it. You're not Baby..." tears rolled down his craggy face. "So this is how it ends. My girl, I love...," he couldn't say it.

Her heart went out to him, but she couldn't reach out and touch him. All the fight had went out of him and he refused to say or do anything else. Ellen felt hollow, empty, worthless. Still no trigger for her memory. 

The next week finds Ellen squinting under harsh lights, wearing a stylish wig and an outfit donated to her by the Baby Firefly Preservation Society, fidgeting and uncomfortable in her wheelchair. She still hadn't left the hospital, all the lights and equipment had been trucked in at the TV station's expense to keep the hospital's star patient secure.

"Fifteen minutes till on the air," called a technician, and the whole place was abuzz with people bustling about doing their jobs.

"Vera-Ellen Johns," asks a man's voice.

She looks up and sees a tall, slender man in thick glasses and an even thicker mustache looking down at her. "Yes?"

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you," he beams, holding out his hand. She takes it and he shakes it vigorously. "I'm--"

"..Lance Brockwell, I know. I see you on the tv every night," she interrupts. In person his tacky fashion sense was even more appalling.

He smiles, a wide, attractive, toothy smile, his blue eyes twinkling. One thing could be said, he may not be able to dress himself correctly but he had some charisma going on. "I see you're nervous. Not to worry! I'll be here to help you, and I won't break anything too traumatic on you. Just take a deep breath. Yeah, that's it." The woman followed his advice and smiled at him tentatively and it almost took his own breath away. Despite her ordeals, the scars and her battered form she was radiant when she smiled and he couldn't help but notice. Could this softspoken, unassuming girl have committed all those horrible crimes she was accused of? That's what he intended to find out.

"Welcome, this is Lance Brockwell with Channel 6 News. We're here with the infamous criminal-turned-amnesiac Vera-Ellen 'Baby' Firefly to see her side of things--as they always say, there's two sides to every story." He turns to Ellen, who's smiling nervously in front of the cameras. "Just relax, Miss Firefly," he grins warmly at her. "As most know, you were captured at a roadblock while on the run from numerous murders, then one day you wake up in a hospital with no recollection whatsoever of your whole life. So you recall nothing at all?"

"No. Nothing."

"And your personality--well, there's been no evidence of any murderous tendencies on your part, is that right?" She nods. "What are your feelings on what's happened to you since you regained consciousness?"

"Ah...well, uh, mostly confused at first," she elicits some laughs from the camera crew. "The staff have been very kind, and I've had to relearn most everything," she answers.

"Such as," Lance questions.

"Reading, writing, pretty much everything about culture. Only since they've been letting me watch TV a week ago do I know who you are, Lance."

"Wow, that's a pretty extreme case of memory loss," he observes.

"Yeah, so they tell me," she giggles, a childish hitching laugh, the lone holdover from her life before. Lance watches her with growing interest and attraction, taken with her unconscious aura and charisma.

Clearing his throat he then asks, "So Miss Firefly, would you kill someone?"

"No, never," she responds, taken aback.

"You have no urge to murder or kidnap someone?"

"Of course not!"

"So it's safe to say you are nothing like the Baby Firefly that committed all those terrible crimes?"

"Well..yes, that'd be true," she says.

"So the person that was being hunted by the police, is in fact, dead. Prosecuting you would serve no purpose other than to persecute an innocent person."

The production assistant begins hissing at Brock, telling him that's totally not what the station wanted, to start contraversy.

"I think you hit the nail on the head, Mr. Brockwell."

"Please, call me Lance." 

Ellen was so glad to get that over with, even though flirting with Lance was utterly fun. She was rolled into her room by Maria when she spotted Roy Dobson waiting for her. His flanking deputies stepped between the young nurse and the patient's wheelchair. "I'm placing you under arrest," he announces. Ellen idly wondered how he kept his crazy hair and sideburns perfectly coiffed.

"What took you so long, Sheriff," she asks him, levelling her blue-green eyes at him.

He seemed at a loss for a moment, then said, "If you're well enough to have a televised interview you're well enough to pay for your crimes."

"Fine, take my crippled ass to jail."

Dobson takes her wheelchair, whirls it around and pushes her out the door. "I got a better idea, whore," he hisses.

"Hey," Maria shouts, wondering where the hospital-appointed guards were. 


	3. In Hot Water

"Help! Somebody stop them," the nurse continued as Ellen was hustled to the elevator. Dr. Lowell, her psychiatrist, happened to be coming down the opposite end of the hall and hailed the errant officers who didn't stop. "What the hell is going on," he asked Maria who was standing there wide-eyed.

"That asshole Dobson just took off with her! He placed her under arrest but I don't think he's taking her to the station, he said he had something else planned."

"Holy shit," Lowell swore, heading for Dr. Branigan's office at breakneck speed, Maria tailing him. "All we need is another Wydell repeat."

Outside, Ellen struggled with the cops as they tried to maneuver her into a waiting van. Still dressed in her interview clothes, she tore off a brooch that Grace, the hospital busybody, had given her. It fell unnoticed to the sidewalk while one of the bulky deputies bodily pulled her from her wheelchair and tossed her into a seat, where she landed in a boneless heap. Her means of transport was folded and thrown to the back of the van carelessly, and the vehicle started up. The woman tried sitting up and found it difficult, but she saw the the hospital recede into the distance as they started moving. She found she could move the fingers on her right hand without pain, but it was a short-lived euphoria. She managed to squirm her way to a sitting position, thankful they hadn't cuffed her. Guess they figured she was a harmless cripple.

"Yanno, we're gonna be in big shit for this," observes one of the deputies.

"The end justifies the means, my friend," Roy Dobson replies coolly.

"She looks mighty good in that purple pantsuit...bet she looks even better out of it," he muses, looking her over like she was a juicy steak. "A little more wrongdoing wouldn't hurt us any more." He sat his bulk beside her, and Ellen leaned away from him as far as she could. "Besides, she can't run away." He ran his meaty hand up her leg, which she couldn't feel due to the nerve damage but seeing it made her skin crawl. She socked him in the face with her arm-cast. His grey eyes flashed angrily at her, and he raised his fist to strike her.

"That's enough, Todd. We don't wanna rough up the prisoner too much, how would that reflect on us? No, I have other ways of making her suffer." 

The female opened her puffy eyes and found herself strapped to a chair, her arms tied behind her. She tried moving her head and found it in some kind of restraint--she couldn't turn her head or move it at all. They must've given her some kind of sedative from how groggy she felt. "Hello," she called out. Don't be scared, she told herself, keep your wits about you. Breathe. Ok. She must be in a different hospital, it had that sterile look about it from the room she was in.

"Well, well," came Dr West's effete voice. "Looks like the prisoner is awake. We have something we want you to look at."

"Fuck you," she said.

"No thanks, I like girls with more meat on their bones. I'm also afraid the, shall we say, fruits of your love, are too oft-tasted, my dear."

Roy Dobson appeared before long, smoking a cigarrette and looking a bit disheveled. Behind him an officer was carrying a stack of old film reels, which Roy threaded into a projector behind Ellen's seat. He then came around to face the woman, pulling a chair up. He was very close to her, their knees nearly touching. He reached and ripped the wig from her head, handing to a deputy who put it on a table, one of the few pieces of furniture in the stark room.

"Now. Miss Firefly, just cooperate an' you'll make it through this alive. Tell me the truth, was it you who killed Sheriff Wydell? Or was it that scumbag father of yours? Broke 'is neck and left him lyin like a dog in the dirt."

Staring into his wrathful eyes she shook her head, gasping "I don't know. I don't remember!"

"Really and truly?"

"Yes," she insisted.

He leaned closer to her, his hands on her upper arms, the fingers digging into her flesh. Don't freak out, don't freak out, she repeated to herself. She squirmed her upper body, jutting her chest up to his face. "Lookit these! This what you want, you sicko?" Dobson had to pull his gaze up from her cleavage, the smooth still-tanned skin of her chest, her delicate collar bone and graceful neck, up to her defiant face. She blinked her eyes from a feeling of deja-vu coming over her.

_Chines, Japanese, dirty knees, lookit THESE!_

She saw two couples on a queen-sized bed, covered in blood. Terror and disgust were evident in their expressions as they looked on her as she danced. Then just like it appeared it was gone.

"Doctor, did she just have a flashback," queried Dobson. The psychiatrist had rushed forward when she jerked in her chair.

"What did you see? What did you see," he demanded.

Ellen's eyes focused on them again, her breathing becoming more normal. She remembered something, it made no sense to her for the time being but it was something at least.

"She remembered something, didn't she Dr. West," Dobson exclaimed. "Get that truth serum an' we'll find out." 

Ellen didn't recall a whole lot immediately after they started administering various drugs to her. She answered their questions and then was made to watch the films, which were mostly Otis Driftwood's 'home movies'.

It started out with Otis behind the camera and Baby posing with a group of three victims, all teenage girls. She mugged and preened in front of the camera, then cut the lips off one girl and a couple of fingers off the other one, giggling with glee. Ellen couldn't turn her head from the sight so she shut her eyes which were welling with tears. "Watch, damn you," barked Dobson. He pulled his revolver and put it to her head, then cocked the hammer. "Watch or I'll blow yer brains outta that pretty head of yours."

She opened her eyes to see that her former self had taken the camera, and filmed while Otis carved slogans into the flesh of the third unfortunate. After a while he untied her and Baby followed them as her adopted brother chased the girl around the room, ripping her clothes off bit by bit. "Oh, God," she breathed when he began raping the teenager who fought and struggled for all she was worth. "Please turn it off," she sobbed. She couldn't take any more. "Please, I've seen enough! Turn it off!" Otis was banging the girl's head on the floor as he fucked her brutally and Baby giggled and commented while he did it. After a few more moments the film was removed and another threaded into the projector. 

The next one was news footage, much of it not shown on television, about the Dr. Satan Cult Murders, as it was being called. Then came a shaky camera view of the massive roadblock, where the Devil's Rejects were captured. Lead peppered the blue car Otis was driving, and the vehicle's occupants as well, who kept getting back up to fire at their enemies. Baby and Spaulding finally slumped in the back seat, their weapons falling out of their lifeless fingers. Screaming at the top of his lungs Otis swerved the floatboat, broadsiding the roadblock and sending cops flying. In the dust cloud and confusion the longhaired fugitive pretty much fell out of the car in his attempt to get out. He nudged Spaulding and Baby and got no response, and the horrible amount of blood everywhere and the bulletholes riddling both of them forced him to limp past a police Blazer, desperate to get away. His guns were empty. Aw, fuck it. "Fuck it," he repeated out loud.

He rushed the officers with just his Bowie knife and was promptly mowed down, and left a twitching, bleeding mess on the highway. It was still several moments before the remaining officers would approach the downed Otis or the car, and only then with guns still trained on them. Opening the passenger door Cutter's large frame rolled out with a thunk, completely devoid of life. Baby's door was opened to reveal a young woman almost completely covered in blood and dirt, but still breathing.

"One of 'em's still alive," shouted a cop. "Get the medics over here!"

Roy rushed along with the paramedics to the female fugitive who was moaning, her eyelids fluttering. "Get her! Save her! I want her to tell me why! I WANNA KNOW WHY!" 

The footage ended. Silence descended upon the room. The only sound was Ellen's sobbing. Slowly Dobson lowered the gun he had against her temple and reholstered it. "Why...why are you doing this to me," she asked.

"I wanted you to see what you an' your family did. I want you to know that you can't escape justice, no matter what your excuse. And I want filth like you removed from society."

"Officer Dobson," she sneered, since he still wasn't officially sheriff yet. "I'm sorry for all the things the Fireflys did, but I'm not Baby. Baby no longer exists; I'm Ellen. Killing me ain't gonna bring all those murdered people back."

"No," conceded the acting sheriff. "But it may stop more innocent people from being murdered."

"But I would never--"

"Baby Firefly's still in there," Dr. West cuts in. "Still there, just waiting to come out."

"You don't know that," she shrieked at them. "I've been persecuted all my known existence! You're criminal is dead! Why can't you all leave me alone!"

"My, she's getting worked up...Time for sleepytime," the skinny man injects her with more medicine. 

"Ellen? Ellen, can you hear me," Dr. Branigan asked softly, touching his patient's face.

Ellen's eyes flew open, she jerked involuntarily in the bed. The concerned faces of Dr. Lowell, Maria and Dr. Branigan came into view and she calmed down a bit. Then she noticed the cast was off her arm, and other than being slightly atrophied due to nonuse it seemed fine. Branigan, Ruggsville County Medical Facility's master surgeon, explained to her that she should have most of the use of that arm, but the damage to her legs was more complicated. She had a good chance of walking again, but it was going to take a very long and strenuous recovery.

"Where's Dobson," she asked fearfully.

"He's been temporarily suspended from duty due to gross misconduct," the bespectacled Lowell responds. His black hair needed a good trimming, but the young man rarely paid attention to such mundane details.

"I can't believe he'd stoop to doing something like this," Branigan fumed. "The potential damage to you mentally was bad enough, but the drugs they'd given you nearly put you into another coma. One good thing, though--due to the police department's unscrupulous actions the court has suspended any sort of charges against you, at least until you've healed more. It'll make people more sympathetic to your plight, as well."

"This is like some sort of terrible game, ain't it," Ellen said bitterly. "With my life and future in the balance."

"You're not without your own weapons," Dr. Lowell tells her. Her charm hadn't escaped his eye either. All who came to know her seemed to love her. "Or without friends."

She tried to remember through the pharmaceutical-induced haze what Dobson and his cronies had done to her, and recalled the footage she'd been forced to watch, and suddenly she was inside the film--reliving another memory. She slowly raised her handgun and aimed at an officer, her face a mask of pain and rebellion. Her father was beside her, her caretaker and hero. Otis floored the gas in the car and they sped toward their fate, all squeezing the triggers of their weapons.

"Get those IV's in here," Dr. Branigan shouts and the nurses began scurrying. Their star patient was twitching, her eyes rolled back in her head. Baby was struck by myriad projectiles and Ellen jerked and convulsed in her hospital bed. She was groaning and struggling for air as if she was going through the terrible situation all over again.

"She's reliving a memory," declared Dr. Lowell.

"Daddy," Ellen screamed piteously, as if she couldn't believe with her father beside anything bad could happen to her. "Otis!"

Ellen's heart stopped. 


	4. Baby Makes an Appearance

A difibulator was rolled into the room which Dr. Branigan used on her several times until at last her heart began beating again, the monitor beeping its regular rhythm. Gasping and coughing she was miraculously conscious, pushing herself into a sitting position.

"Ellen," asks Maria who'd observed, astounded, at the whole display.

"What's that, sugar," she cocks her head at the nurse.

"Are you all right?"

Ellen touches her head and shrieks. "My hair! What the fuck happened to mah hair!"

"Oh, shit," Branigan hisses under his breath. Had the long-dormant Baby reared her head?

"Who the fuck are you people? Where am I? WHERE'S OTIS?" 

What's your name," ventures Dr. Branigan.

"Baby, B-A-B-Y, should be easy enuff for a fancypants doctor like yew. Holy shit, I can't move mah legs. What'd you cocks do to me?" She searched for something to use as a weapon and clutched a water pitcher. She hurled it at the nearest nurse who ducked and squealed, running to the far side of the room.

A long string of differing expressions chased themselves across her face as if she was struggling internally. She slumped forward and was so still everyone thought she had passed out, or worse. Ellen stirred, pushing herself upright and looking around the room, puzzled.

"What the hell just happened," she wanted to know. 

"This is not good. Not good," sighed the head doctor.

"Do you have your memory back," questioned Lowell.

"No, I don't. I started flopping all around then I wake up with all you lookin at me like I just growed a third head."

"This..this is more like a split personality than straight amnesia--usually the person remembers the flashback they have."

"So I got summin else wrong with me? Just great."

"It may have something to do with all the medication she'd cruelly been given," Branigan mused. "This will damage her case, too, though. She could be considered a dangerous loose end, a ticking time bomb if she has any more of these episodes."

Meanwhile, at neighboring Spring Hill Medical Center, a guard and nurse entered Otis's room to find the ever-clever madman had scrambled up onto his bed on his good leg, pulled off his long-sleeved shirt and tied it around a light fixture, then leaped off his bed. The body was swinging, foot still twitching. It must've just happened, the nurse screamed for assistance while the guard cut him down. After doing CPR the red-faced psycho coughed and took a breath, then seized the man's neck in his awkward three-fingered grip.

"Dammit you sunofabitch," he hollered at the guard. "I was tryin' to go out on MY terms and you fucked it up!" Otis bit him in the neck. 

The two missing guards appeared, taking hold of Otis's arms in an attempt to pull him off the prone guard. The psycho hillbilly's teeth were as yet calmped to the poor man's neck and tore out a chunk as he was pulled away. Blood immediately pooled under his head as he clutched at the jagged wound.

Physicians were soon at the scene. One of the braver souls darted forward to jab Otis in the arm with some tranquilizers. After a few moments the kicking and swearing ceased and everyone got their breath. Then the nurses noticed the fallen man and acted swiftly to sotp the bleeding and dress the injury. The man lost a lot of blood but upon inspection he had a good chance of surviving.

"How in the HELL did he come to be by himself," demanded Dr. Greene, the director of the hospital.

"Well," stammered a blood-spattered guard. "He was under sedation and strapped to the bed and we wanted to grab a Coke. We stepped out for just a minute--"

"He's NOT to be left alone, ever. Under no circumstances is he to be left unmonitored. Is that clear," the head of the facility snapped.

"Yes Doctor," murmured both chastised employees.

Dr. Greene sighed rubbing his balding head, then told the attendants to get the patient cleaned up and properly restrained. Wanda, the nurse who'd discovered Otis hanging from the ceiling, helped move his wiry, limp body to a gurney. He had a plentiful helping of new scars to add to his collection, all over his slender form. Wanda gazed at the tattoo covering most of his chest--a skull with demon-bat wings. Looking at his maimed hands and mangled leg with her dark eyes she could almost feel sorry for him. Almost. 

Ellen was quietly reading in nurse Grace's Bible, thumbing through the illustrations with curiosity. She still had trouble--due to her amnesia she had to be retaught how how to read. What strange ideas contained in that book that was so important to most, she thought. Some of it made sense, like do unto other what you would have them do unto you, and let he who has no sin cast the first stone. But a lot of it simply confused her with its contradictions.

The young woman became aware of someone watching her and glanced out of the corner of her eye. She recognized the bespectacled Lance Brockwell but there was a woman with him she didn't know. "Hullo, Mr. Brockwell. Or is it Lance," she teased him, closing the Good Book respectfully.

"Hi there, Ellen," he greets her. "This here is Eve Grant, president of the Capital Punishment Abolilitionist Group. She wanted to meet you." The hulking orderlies let them pass, and the well-dressed blonde woman stepped forward smiling. She could tell from the pictures it was the infamous Baby Firefly from her beautiful eyes and smile, but there were numerous scars now all over her face and head which were just beginning to be hidden by the thick golden hair growing back. It was forming little ringlets all over her head since her hair had such vigorous natural curl.

Then there was the total lack of expression of pure hatred or malice which greeted the slim, long-legged woman, which prompted her to extend her hand. Ellen took it in a firm but friendly handshake. Eve had several questions for the amnesiac and things she wanted to go over to present her case to the Texas Governor. She wanted to save Vera-Ellen Firefly and not only that, get the death penalty abolished. Ellen engaged her but her gaze kept swinging back to Lance in his clashing wardrobe and slicked-back hair managing nevertheless to look hot. Must be his grin, she thought absently. Jeez, was she getting horny? She had no time to be lusting after men, nor did she know how to acomplish a lot sexually since a. forgetting everything and b. having legs that didn't work. 

"Is there any chance for Otis," Ellen asked hopefully. She didn't remember him and he was a cold-blooded rapist killer, but he was the only family she had left. And she'd loved him, she knew that much.

Eve looked away, not wanting to meet the other woman's bluish gaze. "He may be able to offer a plea of insanity, but it's a long shot. People are calling for blood, they are outraged by the number and nature of the crimes."

"You understand, I have to try."

"I know you do. You must've been very close to him," the activist said carefully.

Ellen snorted. "You don't have to beat around the bush about it. From all evidence I was a part of a monstrous kidnapping, robbing, murdering family. That don't mean we didn't love each other, now does it? Or that I'd abandon him?"

"Of course not," Eve acceded. "In my business I have to be...well, diplomatic hahaha. And that was thoughtless of me."

"I would like to speak with Lance now, if ya don't mind."

Eve Grant thanked Ellen and exited, watched with interest by the two orderlies. "I'll be in the lobby," she told Lance before she closed the door.

"Girlfriend," the woman asked him.

"No...just a real good acquaintance," he didn't elaborate. Just how good, Ellen wondered.

"Come here, Lance. I'll try not to kill you."

He approached, surprised at not being afraid of her. She'd killed numerous men (and women) with no compunction--but that obviously wasn't the person laying in the hospital bed. No, the person in that hospital bed was innocent and vulnerable but with a core of hardened steel, wrapped up in a tasty wrapper. 

Lance was so intent he nearly tripped and fell, causing Ellen to giggle. "That's right...fall and squash Ruggsville County MC's most famous patient," she jibed. Blushing he pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down. Carefully. "You're such a dork," she said.

"Gee, thanks," he rolled his blue eyes. "And here I brought someone who could help you."

"I'm grateful," she says, a sly grin spreading across her face. Taking his hand in her own delicate ones she rubbed her cheek on his knuckles, relishing the contact. He pulled his appendage away when she began suckling his fingers.

"Oh boy, that's...that's enough," he declares.

"Are you afraid to touch me, too," she asks in a hurt tone. "I watch television an' I see the people communicating, laughing, sharing things with one another, which is good, and I get a lot of that here. But no one will touch me unless they have to. No pats, no hugs, no kisses."

"No, it wasn't you, Ellen," Lance asserts. He hadn't meant to hurt her feelings. "I mean, we've only seen each other a couple of times. I, uh--I also don't like this public setting."

"The fact that legally I killed 75-plus people doesn't enter into it," she sounded like she wasn't buying it.

"Well..maybe a little bit. Shit, I'm telling the truth! Don't look at me like that. Ellen, you're positively exasperating," he stood, stooped and put his lips to hers. 

His lips were very soft, she thought, as he probed her mouth with his tongue. The mustache sort of tickled her but the overall feeling was wonderful. She ran her hands over his angular face and high cheekbones as his own slid under her back, arms encircling her waist. Lips still on hers he brought her to him, melding her upper body against his. The drab cotton dress she wore was suddenly hot and clingy. Finally, breathless they parted, but Ellen's arms were around his neck, continuing the intimate embrace. "Sweet Jesus, Lance," she breathed in his ear.

"God, you are somethin', girl," he whispered back, turned on something fierce. He could see how men couldn't resist her...as Baby she must've been a force unstoppable. He let her back down on the bed slowly after hearing one of the guards clear his throat. They apparently percieved no threats, at least to anyone's safety. The patient's virtue was another matter.

"Thank you," she told him, squeezing his hand.

"For what?"

"For being a friend," she said. "Being a man, and being a dork."

Lance just didn't understand women sometimes.

He'd definately be checking up on her, though. Yes indeedy. 


	5. Ellen Shows Her Grit

Ellen wheeled her way to the TV room, humming cheerily. Her arms and upper body had strengthened from constant use and she was proud of herself. She'd made minimal progress with her legs; she could barely wiggle her toes. Dr. Branigan told her not to lose hope just yet, though, and today was a pleasant sunshiney day so she didn't feel bad--even if she was followed by all times by a police escort outside her room.

One of the other patients was watching the news she noticed, rolling her wheelchair closer.

A reporter was standing in front of a bunch of milling, shouting, nearly rioting people on the black and white television set. "I'm here on the scene where a group of protesters have turned violent," she said into her microphone. "They'd been calling for the immediate death of the patient housed inside the hospital known only as Otis B. Driftwood. Some are even armed and have continued to resist the police force sent to pacify them."

Shouts in the background could be heard. "Kill him!" "Death to the rapist!" "...a blight on society!"

"This is beginning to look like a lynch mob," the female reporter went on.

"Oh, shit! Oh, shit oh shit oh shit," Ellen exclaimed. It wouldn't take much for that group to turn on her and be here to drag her out and hang her, or worse. It had hurt her when she'd learned of her adopted brother's suicide attempt, and she still hadn't regained her memory, nor did it seem to be likely any time soon. "I gotta do something," she told herself out loud. "I gotta go!" She made for the corridor. One of the nurses called for a doctor while the officers ran after her. Man, she could roll when the mood hit her.

One of them managed to take hold of the handle and with a tremendous tug stopped her. "Let go," she cried. "I have to save him. They're gonna kill him!"

The officers looked at one another, at a loss. What should they do? They can't just shoot a woman in a wheelchair, but they were supposed to make sure she didn't do anything dangerous to herself or others. She kept trying to make the chair go and the cop refused to let go.

Dr. Lowell came dashing up, demanding to know what was going on. "A lynch mob is gonna kill Otis, and they can't be allowed to do that! It'll be chaos all over if they go through with it! I have to stop em!"

The black-haired young doctor crossed his arms, planting himself in front of her. "Listen to what you're saying. You, a woman in a wheelchair, your own position precarious at best, going to go confront a bunch of rioters?"

"What would YOU do if it was your brother," she challenged. "If you don't let me go I may have to do something bad."

"Bad," repeated Dr. Lowell, a worried frown forming on his face. "What would you do?"

"This," she said, ballling her fist and putting it in the cop's crotch restraining her chair. He doubled over, groaning, and the other policeman yelled in surprise. Orderlies had come to the rescue but surprisingly Dr. Lowell waved them back.

"Please, no more punching guys in the nuts," he told her, backing off a bit himself. "If you must go, then we'll have to go with you."

"Speak for yourself," squeaked the officer in the floor clutching himself. 

When they arrived at the scene things had worsened; the mob had stormed the hospital, rolling over the doctors and orderlies on the ground floor, then had begun searching for Otis's room.

"Let me through! Let me through," Ellen barked, her visage and voice projecting authority. Surprisingly enough, the gathering crowd of onlookers parted to let the invalid by. She was flanked by two officers and Dr. Lowell, who was resigned at this point of losing his job at best. Someone recognized her as she pushed herself along. "It's Baby Firefly," they called. "She's here! The shit will hit the fan now!"

"Fuck off," she tossed over her shoulder. Jeez, did she look like a tank? She wasn't doing the whole guns-blazing-Bonnie-and-Clyde shit again.

They finally found a working, unoccupied elevator (one the rioters hadn't trashed to prevent easy pursuit) and made it upstairs to behold the lyncher duking it out with the officers guarding Otis. Gunsmoke filled the hallway and Ellen flinched every time a gun went off. God, that was loud indoors! One of her guards took hold of her chair and pushed her as the group sprinted toward the action. Otis bellowing could be heard over the lessening fire as the guards were gunned down. Ellen's wheels slid in the crimson pools leading to the room and she tried not to look at the floor.

"Come to collect the Boogeyman," taunted the wraith. "Will that make ye sleep better, fuzznuts?"

"Get him!" "Tie him up!" "Better yet, string him up!" "Naw, let's castrate 'im first!"

The doorway was clogged with bodies and sounds of a scuffle could be discerned from inside. "Stop! STOP IT," Ellen cried at the top of her lungs.

"Whoozat?" "Go look," came the voices of the rioters.

The cop gave the chair a mighty push and they were through. The room was butcher's block--nurses, orderlies and doctors all had been shot. Anyone who stood in the way of their quarry.

"Holy shit," one of the men said. "It's that Firefly bitch. Two for the price o' one!"

"Shuddup," she shouted, getting a surprised silence. "What the hell you think you're doing? Executing a criminal?" Sounds of assent. "Who made you judge, jury and executioner? What gave you the right to hurt and kill these people here? They'd done nothing wrong!"

"They was harboring this fiend," interjected a woman, one of the few in the group.

"You ain't seen shit," growled Otis, a man on either side of him holding his arms.

"Otis, damn you, shut up a minute," she shot at him. He blinked his faded eyes--that seemed like the Baby he was used to. "Lynching ain't justice, folks. It's being scared busybodies who jump the gun and hurt innocent people. That's what Otis has been accused of, harming innocents. Think about it. Without the Law, you're all just like him. Just like I was."

The group mostly look around and at one another, letting her words sink in. "Who are YOU to lecture us on the Law? You're Baby fuckin' Firefly! A murderin', thievin', kidnappin' whore!"

"Yeah? So? SO? You wanna wallow in that same filth, pig? I had to get shot 26 times all over my body and in the head to straighten my shit out. Is the same thing gonna have to be done to you?" 

"Yeah? Who's gonna do it," taunted the bearded man. Weapons were trained on the little band of newcomers.

"Well..," Ellen said, bringing into view from under her dress a sawed-off she'd retrieved from one of the fallen lynchers. "This thing has a pretty good spray from that end, so I understand." Blue-green eyes glitter menacingly.

The big lug pursed his lips, sweat beading on his forehead. Sirens could be heard outside the building, the shouts of police and FBI, probably. They'd wasted valuble time. Turning themselves over to the authorities suddenly sounded much better than being peppered with buckshot. The bitch was outnumbered, but in this enclosed area it wouldn't matter, everyone would die. The slut looked like she meant business. He lowered his gun and the others followed suit.

"Let him go," she ordered, and they acquiesced. "Now get out, and go surrender to the police. Leave your guns with the nice officer behind me." She watched them slowly file out, handing their weapons to the cop. Dr. Lowell, astounded and speechless, ended up holding several guns still hot from heavy use. Only after they could hear the surrender of the mob did she breathe at last, lowering the shotgun. She wouldn't have known how to use it, but she sure had those dumbasses believing she did.

Otis limped to her, falling to his knees next to her. His wiry arms went around her. "Aw, Baby..." he sobbed. He looked up, scanning her face. "You're not Baby," he declared for the second time. "But she's in there. I saw her. I would say, now's the time for us to go, but we ain't in no condition to run, are we?" He chuckled. "You saved me from bein' offed like a little bitch, but I don't think there's much hope, is there?"

She stroked his lank, pale hair, considering how to respond. "I don't know, Otis. We can only make the best of it. I won't give up. Never."

He smiled. "That's my girl. My Angel." 

Otis touched her face and she jumped then lowered her head till her forehead was touching his. "Otis? Otis," she said in a familiar tone. She threw her arms around him joyfully. "God," she said after looking him over "Half o' you is missin."

Otis, baffled, eyed her suspiciously.

"What's the matter with you? Why you lookin at me like that? It's me, Baby!"

"Angel Baby? Do you remember everything," he asked her, holding her hands in his maimed ones.

"I don't remember what happened to put me in a wheelchair. At least, I don't think." Her brow furrowed in thought. "Where's Daddy?"

"I think we should get her back to the hospital," suggested Dr. Lowell, motioning for the officer to bring her along.

"You ain't separatin' us again," exclaimed Baby, clutching Otis. "Where's my Pa?"

"He's dead, Baby. We all died, but we was revived. We went out fighting."

"No! No, that's not true," she cried, tears rolling down her face. "Not Daddy! No...," she hiccuped, eyes going wide. "I remember Wydell, he said Mama was dead...I remember..." She stiffened, then started convulsing, eyes rolling back in her head.

"Fuck, let's get her out of here," ordered the young doctor. 

The young woman snatched the sawed-off still sitting beside her and twisted in her chair to use it on those standing in her way. Police and FBI were filtering into the small room but the officer who'd accompanied them shouted for them to stay back. The gun went off but thankfully the barrel was pointed at the ceiling, for Dr. Lowell had took hold of the weapon. The remaining shot went off, this time grazing some agents but mostly hitting the adjacent wall. Twisting the gun out of his grasp she smacked him in the jaw with it, making him see stars for a few moments. Then she launched herself out of her wheelchair, sliding on the blood-slick floor, grabbing another gun which was her intention, and brought it to bear.

Jeez, the young doctor thought, was she some kinda ninja? "No, don't shoot her," he squawked, stepping into the police line of fire. Desperate, he furiously kicked the wheelchair, sending it into her path. It hit her pretty hard, causing her to drop the rifle she'd siezed and earning a pained grunt from her. In a split second the place was crawling with officers who restrained a whooping Otis, whom they also had to relieve of several knives and guns he'd already managed to nick, and subdued a wailing, thrashing Baby. Dr. Lowell kept explaining she was under his care and needed to be back at the hospital for treatment. The FBI were more inclined to acede to this reasoning when she began spitting up and convulsing again. 


	6. The Morris Green Show Blues

_.."No, Mama can't be dead. That's not real!"_

..."See I stuck her right here with my knife...you could say I fucked her with it."

..."You want it, here it is, come get it. Come on!"

"Run, Baby girl. Run!"

Gasping, Ellen woke sitting up in her bed, sweating and panicky. Now she had two hazy memories from her past life, but had no idea what to make of them. Fumbling over the bedside table she poured herself some water and drank thirstily. Then she looked around--she was back in her room, but her wheelchair was nowhere to be seen and her windows had been shuttered. How'd she get back here? She recalled saving Otis from the lynch mob and exchanging words with him, but nothing else beyond that. Uh oh...had her old self come calling? Maybe it was the contact with Otis.

"Hey," she hailed one of the orderlies posted at her door. "Where's Grace and Maria?" The man ignored her. "Hellooo? I want the nurses I know to come here."

Finally, the guard acknowledged her. "Is there a problem?"

"Yes, there IS a problem. I want Maria or Grace or my doctor Branigan, I need to talk to someone."

"Dr. Branigan is on his way. He'll be here shortly," came the clipped answer, and she was put on ignore again.

"You guys are assholes." They didn't respond. "Assholes, ya hear me? Cocksuckin', lard-filled, tight-assed, pig-fuckin pricks! hahahaha, how you like that?"

"George, think the other one has come back out again," one whispered to the other.

"I can hear you, ya know! I'm pissed off, yeah, lil crippled Ellen is pissed off! I want my doctor!" 

Dr. Branigan arrived shortly thereafter to a thoroughly annoyed Ellen. The look on his face, though, made her uneasy. He looked positively livid, walking stiffly to where she was in her hospital bed and pulling a chair up. He deposited himself in it, grey eyes glittering. Man, he looked _pissed_ at her. "It's nice to see you're awake, and not raving and hissing," he observed evenly.

"It's nice to be awake, doctor. You look pretty enraged right now."

"Yes, I suppose I am. After that stunt you and/or Baby pulled it was felt things would be better all around if you were in a state-appointed hospital."

"What? But I was doing fine here, I know and trust you all, and I saved lives by doing what I did!"

"That was taken into consideration, but the risks outweighed the good. After an initial period of observation, and work on your legs, AND if you behave your rotten self, you may be transferred back to us. And..there's one other stipulation." He paused for emphasis. "You must agree to appear on the Morris Green show along with your psychiatrist, Dr. Lowell."

Ellen had seen that program that passed for a talk show and hadn't been impressed; Morris Green seemed to her a pudgy, pompous ass. Rolling her big eyes she groaned, then agreed.

Branigan sighed, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. "You know, my wife and I...we couldn't have any children. Just my luck for me to grow to love the craziest bitch this side of the Rio Grande." He jumped up and walked quickly from the room.

Ellen's face puckered up, trying to keep her own tears from falling. That was probably the best compliment anyone had ever paid her. 

"Hey Dr. Branigan, I'm gonna pack my stuff now."

"Ok."

"Oh, doctor?"

"Yes?"

"I'm packing my stuff."

"Uh-huh."

A few moments later...

"Hey Dr. Branigan, you know, I was thinking...I'm gonna pack my stuff."

The doctor looks up from his clipboard, annoyed and amused at once. "Sure, Ellen."

She continues sorting her few personal posessions. "Oh, guess what? I'm packing my stuff!"

That girl did have her own brand of humor, Branigan thinks drily. She was putting a brave face on a highly precarious situation, which was just as well. "Ellen, go pack your things," he jokes back with her.

"You think I should," she answeres primly, batting her pretty eyes. Her hair was a couple of inches long now, in tight curls all over her head, making her look younger. She'd already spent her time fretting over Otis being put in solitary confinement, mostly for his own safety, but neither of them could do much about it at the moment. 

She was moved to her more 'neutral' hospital and settled in, and they duly undertook major surgery on the damaged nerves in her left leg. They were also more resistant to her inherent charms, but she remained undaunted. She missed Dr. Branigan and Dr. Lowell, and Maria with her thick black hair and Spanish curse words, and Grace's constant meddling. No leniency was granted her, either, she was watched at all times and her door was kept locked, and the wheelchair was kept out of her reach except at allotted times when she was allowed out.

Intense physical therapy followed the surgery, and she could stand and walk a few steps without assistance, but it was a stretch. Her legs had been unused for so long, and been so injured, it was an uphill battle. She worked hard for she wanted to be completely independent.

Plus, Ellen had a plan forming in her head. 

Soon enough Ellen finds herself in front of cameras once more, marvelling at the better equipment than that used by Lance and the hideous decor--it was that era when people thought avacado green and tangerine orange looked great together when decorating rooms in houses and offices. She took a deep breath to center herself, shifted in her wheelchair. She probably could've walked out on crutches but it was decided it would make her look more harmless if she remained in her wheelchair.

"Hello, Miss Firefly," came the soft yet snooty voice of the host of the Morris Green Show--Morris Green himself. He was wearing one of his tailored suits complete with wide lapels and a dark green tie. He shook her hand, smiling. Ellen didn't think it was very genuine but smile back. "Bet you never thought you'd be on television."

"And I bet you never thought you'd be in the presence of a real live Firefly," she grinned smugly at him.

"Ellen," warned her psychiatrist, Dr. Lowell, as he approached.

"I know," she responded, rolling her eyes.

Morris Green was preoccupied with with staring at her heavily glossed lips and modestly revealed cleavage.

"We're on in five," called the producer. Everyone took their places. Ellen adjusted her beige peasant blouse to show more breast and pulled her slim back skirt up a bit to reveal still-supple legs, which were just now getting their musculature back. She found she enjoyed making assholes uncomfortable. 

"Welcome, welcome to the Morris Green show," announced the chunky man, obviously enjoying the attention immensely. "Today we have a very special guest, indeed two special guests. Remember the shows I did on the Dr. Satan cult murders? Well, we have oneof the members of that family, lovely Vera-Ellen 'Baby' Firefly, and her psychiatrist the brilliant young Dr. Frederick Lowell. Welcome to the show," he smiled at his two guests. The cameras panned in on each of them.

"Glad to be here," burbled Ellen. Dr. Lowell merely looked nervous, dark eyes darting around.

"Now you survived being gunned down while running from the law, that story in itself is pretty, ah, pretty amazing. But what I wanna concentrate on is the events since then. So, you have, ush, acute amnesia?"

"That's right," she answers.

"Guess that's a medical term, ha ha--all I know is to be a killer you sure are very 'a-cute'," he chuckled at the joke he'd made. Ellen wasn't pleased and it showed on her face.

"Well, aside from basic things she doesn't recall anything from her past life," Dr. Lowell put in. Getting back on track Morris has the doctor explain what she was suffering from. 

During the commercial break Morris puts his hand on her knee. "So, Vera-Ellen," he begins.

"I prefer Ellen," she tells him, her face a mask of politeness.

"All right, Ellen," he cooes at her. "You ah, doing anything after the show?"

"Just going back to the hospital."

"I was thinking, you know, being in the situation you're in, you need all the help you can get. Some good publicity could really be good for your case."

"What..what are you getting at," she asks, green-blue eyes glinting coldly at him.

"What say you, ah, indulge me this evening? Shouldn't be too difficult for you, Baby was a rather--let's say, loose woman."

"You gotta be fucking kidding me," she retorts, slapping his hand off her knee. "First off, I'm NOT Baby, I am Ellen. Whatever Baby did has no bearing on me, here, now. And second, you're a moon-pie faced buffoon and I'd never let you anywhere near me if I could help it."

"Ok, let's cool it," admonishes Dr. Lowell getting up out of his chair to get in between them.

"We're back on in five seconds," calls a technician. 


	7. Plan in Motion

The heavily chaperoned ride back to the hospital was very stiff and uncomfortable for Ellen, as Dr. Lowell sat across from her, glaring.

"Well," Ellen spoke to break the stony silence. "At least I didn't do the Baby thing and resort to violence." God knew she wanted to, though. Things had sadly deteriorated on the show and she'd made an enemy of Morris Green, who would go on to be one of the most outspoken of her denouncers. Good thing that, his efforts to the contrary nonwithstanding, he wasn't nationally known. Or even known statewide, she thought snidely. However, there was no way in hell she was gonna let some pig like him talk to her the way he did.

"Only just barely," came the sardonic reply. "This hasn't helped you at all. I just don't understand you at times, Ellen."

"Hey, I did what was asked of me, and Baby didn't come out to play. That means I'm in control, and excuse me but would you let that slimeball talk to your sister that way? Honestly?"

After a few seconds he replied, "I guess I wouldn't." Sighing, he adds, "You operate on your own wavelength, don't you? I don't see any of the murderess contained in your police files yet you have a underlying strength that amazes me. What posesses you to do some of the things you do?"

"Trying to analyze me yet again, Lowell," she smirks at him.

"You fascinate me." At her raised eyebrow he reiterates "No, I'm not pawing at you like that Morris Green idiot. Dr. Branigan wants your speedy return to our facility...and so do I."

Ellen gives him a genuine smile. She cared for him and Branigan a lot and began to alter the little plan she'd been forming in her head. 

Good news: Ellen gets to return to the Ruggsville County Medical Center.

Bad news: New Sheriff Polanski gets her brought to court. Backed by newly reinstated Deputy Dobson. The reason: to decide if she should be charged with crimes she has no recollection of by a person she no longer is. 

Come on girl, she told herself. You can do it, hussbucket! Yeah! Put one foot in front of the other! Carefully she did so, managing to walk across the physical therapy room before being caught by Grace, who shared her elation at her achievment.

Ellen became somewhat of an artisan, designing pottery, jewelry, and baskets in her spare time, a bit of a departure from her old self's interests in torture, murder, and dancing. She sometimes wished she had Baby's grit and optimism, in fact she sometimes found herself admiring her fortitude. She went out like the free spirit she had been her whole life.

And then woke up as Ellen.

Well. Ellen wouldn't just take shit lying down either, but she would have to fight with different weapons. Grace's dark grey eyes registered the older woman's joy at Ellen's feat as she helped her to the wheelchair. "You're gettin stronger day by day," she remarked. "Why, you'll be outta here in no time, and on the television, no doubt." 

"Hey Lance," Ellen greeted the tall, slim man. She was in her wheelchair in her room waiting expectantly. "Glad you came to see me."

"Anything for my biggest fan," he responded. His pale blue eyes showed his happiness at seeing her. She was wearing what Branigan dubbed her 'gypsy gear', broomstick skirt, peasant blouse and large bangles. He was dressed more casually this time in a button-up shirt and jeans. His lean arms were tanned; he must spend a lot of time out of doors. Wonder how he found the time, being a newscaster and all.

"There's some things I have to ask you, but I don't know how."

"What is it, Ellen," he asked, expression troubled. "Just tell me."

"Well, I need to know how involved you are with that Eve Grant chick..." The orderlies paid little mind to the pair's furtive whispers. As long as nobody was causing any trouble they didn't care.

The courts decided it would be unfair to prosecute Ellen as she didn't exist before the effective 'death' of Baby. However, they were conflicted about what should be done with her since the potential exists that she could regain her memory at any time and become her old self again. Which would be total murder and mayhem. A lobotomy was suggested that would keep the violet impulses at bay, but there was the risk that she could be reduced to a mental vegetable.

Naturally, she wasn't happy with that. A complete evaluation of her was ordered, and the question of her fate was be explored at a later date. Ellen stared at officer Dobson, wishing that she or Otis or her late father had killed him in the shootout.

The time to act was drawing near. Messages were sent to her supporters in the Baby Firefly Preservation Society. She redoubled her efforts to walk and was able to unassisted for short distances. She spent much time with Dr. Branigan, who'd become a second father to her.

"Hey doctor," she told him one day.

"Yeah?"

"I'm gonna take me a walk."

"All right," he replied, guessing what was coming. "You'll be monitored as usual."

"Oh, and I think I'll take a walk."

"Sure, Ellen."

She raises herself out of her chair and takes a few steps. "Dr. Branigan, I might go for a walk," she giggles.

"Ok. While you're up, why don't you go take a walk?"

"Sure thing," she laughs, walking out the room and out of his life, though he didn't know it yet. 

People were waiting when she made her wobbly way outside to the courtyard; they were from the Baby Firefly Preservation Society, and they were armed. Popping from behind benches and bushes they had the guards and orderlies at a loss, having them put their hands up. Lowell had been watching from the window and came rushing out as quickly as possible waving his arms and panting. "Ellen! No, don't do this! Not this way," he pleaded. Ellen told her cohorts not to shoot him. "We could get you outta this."

"No, we couldn't. They're gonna slice up my brain, doctor," she told him calmly. She grabs him by the arm and pulls him out of sight from the top windows.

"Ellen, no. Please," he hisses, dark eyes full of hurt. "You can still do this legally, the right way."

Ellen shakes her head, her curly hair down to her ears now bouncing. "There ain't no right way to get out of this, doctor," she tells him. "I have to get away, I can't stay in my cage any longer. Come with me," she held her hand out to him.

"Are you serious," he squawked.

"You're fraternizing with the most dangerous criminal in the state. Doctor. Think about that. Come with me. Brother." Breathing heavily he looks down at the ground, then at Ellen's hopeful eyes. Then he took her smooth, slender hand. 

They were bundled into a car and were speeding off, Lowell glancing back at the hospital and his former life receding into the distance. Ellen smiled at him, still grasping his hand. "So...what're we doing," he asks, glancing around at all the hippie-looking people in the car with them.

"We're gonna get Otis," she replies. "Then we're gettin the hell outta the country. Go to Mexico for a while and let the bullshit die down."

The psychiatrist stares at her for a few moments. "You are fucking crazy, girl."

"Izzat your professional opinion, Dr. Lowell? Or maybe I should call you Fred." The car made its way to the Spring Hill Medical Center. When they got there they found the Capital Punishment Abolitionists picketing like crazy, having set up a noisy demonstration. 


	8. All Kinds o' Havoc

It was an effective distraction, and Ellen with sunglasses and dark wig was accompanied by Dr. Lowell and the Baby fanatics as they were ushered into a little-used employee exit. They slipped past watching eyes until they reached the floor where Otis was held; there were two unfriendly guards posted. Ellen approached one trying to be slinky and sexy--the whole walking thing was still rather new for her. She had been used to for so long being half the height her eyes now were. In an instant she had stuck the fellow with a whopping dose of sedatives. The other was done the same by a brown-haired girl who nodded when both men were deposited on the floor. Then the girl shouldered the big duffle bag which carried the weapons and other goodies they'd brought. The group of five proceeded down the hall to more guards around the door to the infamous patient's room.

"Stop! Where d'you think you're going," hailed one of them. They drew their weapons, and Ellen's friends drew theirs.

"Ok, look," spoke Ellen, her tone full of honey. "We're getting in there, and taking its occupant with us. We can do this the messy way, with all of you dying, or we can do this the easy way. Your choice."

The three guards all looked at one another and two lowered their weapons. The other one was giving in and squeezed off a shot at a young college boy who'd recently joined the Society. It caught him in the shoulder, a spurt of blood splatting against the whitewashed wall. Three seconds later the obstinate guard fell, peppered with lead. The other two had dropped to the tiled floor. They were soon in the arms of Morpheus due to the filched hypodermic needles of Ellen's. Lowell made himself useful by getting the keys off one of the guard's belts and opening the door.

"We have to hurry," urges the other male compatriot. "Everyone is likely on the alert."

"I know I know," acknowledged Ellen as they entered the secured room. Two more guards went down in a hail of projectiles. Otis was chained to the wall, attached by a thick leather strap around his neck. He was wearing some tight jeans and an ill-fitting top, making him seem skinnier. They'd kept his hair as short as they could; he fought like the devil himself every time they tried to trim it and right now it was just past the bottom of his ears and straggling around his pale, pale eyes.

The psychiatrist took a step forward then hesitated. "Otis, you gonna behave yourself?"

"Well if it ain't Baby-not-Baby," he drawled. "If this is a breakout, then by all means. I'm meek as a little lamb." He kept his word and didn't touch the doctor as he undid the neck clasp. Ellen was trying to keep from looking at the bodies on the floor. It hurt her that they had to die but they were running out of time and she stepped around the fallen men when they exited the door.

"Gimme a gun," Otis says to Ellen as they ran down the hallway.

"Is that a good idea," Lowell puts in.

"Come on, Ellen--that's what yer goin by now, ain't it? Gimme a gun or take me back to my little room!"

"I ain't even got a gun," she snaps.

"Then yer stupid," came the retort.

"Give him that handgun," she tells the duffle bag girl. Reluctantly she obeys. Lowell decides if that pale maniac gets one he better have one too. Soon Ellen has a revolver, which she was unsure if she'd even be able to use it but felt safer nonetheless.

"Jeez, girl--you forgot how to dress yerself too," Otis tsks over Ellen's smart little pantsuit.

"Guess you never learned," sniffed Ellen. Otis smiled, for once since he woke up not dead from the roadblock he felt his sibling near him again. It was a feeling of contentment and security he thought he'd lost. Overwhelmed he hugged her fiercely, almost causing her to fall.

"I ain't that steady yet," she tells him, smiling.

"Holy fuck," swore Otis when they tried to exit the building. The protesters had mostly been arrested by now and the place was crawling with police.

"Do we have a plan for getting past them," queries the doctor, dark brown eyes wide. He'd already torn a strip from his lab coat to dress the college kid's gunshot wound--the boy was rather calm. Shock maybe.

"Uhhh...scream and run," Ellen suggests.

"You buncha fuckin' babies," Otis jeers, checking his weapon and putting it in the waistband of his pants. "I'm goin out first. Gimme whatever ya got in that bag, Cutie," he gives the brunette a look which brooked no disobedience. She handed him the assault rifle which he cocked with practiced ease, even with his three-fingered maimed hands. "When I step out you guys follow me and run and shoot like motherfuckers."

The psychopath stepped out the door, laying down fire, and the others rushed out shouting and firing wildly. It was sufficient to send the officers looking for cover. Ellen clutched Lowell's arm as they ran, her legs still weak and feet unsure. "Otis, come on," she called to him. She hoped he could see the direction they were heading so they could all pile in the station wagon waiting for them. Otis took off at a sprint after them during the lull in shooting.

"NO YOU DON'T YOU FUCKERS," roared a sickly familiar voice. Almost in slow motion the bushy-headed deputy trained his rifle on the fleeing Otis and began squeezing shots which bounced off cars, ricocheted off trees and embedded in the soft ground. "Otis," screamed Ellen. She had nearly reached the big car when Dobson, heedless of his own safety, began pelting her adopted brother.

A bullet struck his arm and hip, taking him several long moments to even slow down. He unslung the hot firearm from his shoulder and let loose a hail of projectiles in Dobson's direction, screaming in pain and fury.

The young officer caught several slugs in the upper chest, falling backwards like a rag doll, scarlet streams flying up in an arc. Stumbling, Otis staggers forward as some of the cops near the fallen Dobson open fire on him. He makes it behind the trees where the getaway vehicle was parked but not before he took a couple more body shots and one in his right leg. He fell against a tree, leaving a bloody trail as he slid down it to the dirt. Dr. Lowell helped the escapee to the back of the station wagon where Ellen cradled his head in her lap. "Oh God, oh God," she whimpered as he coughed up blood.

"Fucking hell, I've been hit too," griped Lowell, bandaging his hand where a bullet had passed right through it. He then tried to dress Otis's wounds but he appeared to be bleeding internally; not a good sign. "Get us to a pharmacy in the next town," he ordered the man driving.

"Heh, I got 'im. I got that bastard," said the madman contentedly. Tears slid down the young woman's face as she gripped his mangled hand. Looking up hopefully at Lowell he shook his head sadly.

"Fuck! I failed, I wasn't good enough to save us all," she sobbed.

"You did save us, Angel Baby. You saved me from being strung up in the street like a dog, and kept the hangman from his triumph over me. I've went out fightin', like a Firefly. And you, ya resourceful minx, why you'll be home-free." He coughed up more blood which she wiped from his well-shaped lips. Having no recollection of their sibling closeness she still felt for him, and without thinking she put her lips to his in a close-mouthed but tender kiss. After all, they weren't really blood relation, she thought. Weakly he put his wiry arm around her. A jolt ran through her whole body and she saw nothing but white for several seconds. She gasped for air and jerked, spasming against Otis and sending him groaning in pain.

Dr. Lowell turned to them in concern. "Ellen? Are you all right?"

"Otis! Noooo, Otis, no! You can't die. Don't leave me, Otis," she screamed.

"Baby," he murmured, his voice, like the rest of him, growing more feeble.

She remembered. She remembered everything: the fatal roadblock, the flight from her home, her brothers Rufus and Tiny and her mama, and her adored father, the clown known as Captain Spaulding. She remembered working in the hot sun planting the garden, mudfights with Otis, going shopping with RJ, drinking iced tea on the porch on hot summer days. She remembered it all, but oddly enough, remembered her life as Ellen, too. Ellen and Baby were BOTH in the forefront, getting along for the time being.

"Yeah," she answered. "And no." She lay down beside him again, the way they did when she felt insecure or they were in a strange place, but this time she comforted him. "Don't leave me all alone," she moaned. "I just found ye again."

"You ain't alone, ye got fancy-boy over there to look after ya." It wasn't long before he could no longer speak but was still conscious, looking at her with the utmost love. He'd trusted her, even when she wasn't Baby, and he knew she wouldn't leave him.

Ellen turned red-rimmed, puffy eyes to the psychiatrist when he clambered to the back with her and he could feel the pain and despair in that gaze. Lowell checked the unmoving man's pulse in his neck and wrist and couldn't find one. Lowering his darkhaired head he closed the big, beautiful pale eyes staring at nothing. "I'm so sorry, Baby," he says at last.

"I ain't Baby," she sniffs, wiping her nose on her arm. "I ain't Ellen either. Don't bother with that town," she tells the driver. Taking out a business card and reading it she tells him to go to the home of a friend, and eventually allows Lowell to hold her. He felt his button up shirt grow wet from her tears. Probably snot, too, but at this point it didn't really matter.

An hour and a half later they pull into Lance Brockwell's driveway after a tearful leaving of Otis's body at the old Firefly homestead which was rubble now. It was fitting though, thought Vera-Ellen; he'd have Tiny to watch over him. And Grampa was buried there. At least he wouldn't be alone. They all filed out of the station wagon and tramp up to the front door. The house was a modest one-storey affair but quite nicely kept, with a fresh paint job and neatly trimmed lawn.

Lance opened it and his jaw dropped to the floor. Then he quickly ushered them inside, glancing to see if anyone was watching. "Holy hell," he exclaims as the bedraggled bunch wander into the living room. "What happened? I thought you were going to Mexico." The blonde burst into tears and Lowell had to fill him in.


	9. Ellen gets some Lovin

Ok, here's the end of Part 1--but don't worry, there's the sequel coming up very soon. Please read and respond, I'd like to know if there's anybody else in cyberspace who likes to read my fucked up shit lmao.

* * *

It was decided that they would separate the next day, the young fanatics having done what their association set out to do, namely save Baby Firefly, would settle someplace far away with different names. Ellen and Lowell would try for the Mexican border. Thankfully being the nerd he was Lance lived alone. The girls were given the amall spare bedroom and everyone else slept on the couch, sofa and floor. The blonde still had things to say to Lance, and knocked softly on his bedroom door. He opened it, wearing only pajama bottoms. He looked different without his thick glasses, his cheekbones were more evident as was his bright blue eyes. Searching her face a few moments he said, "You seem different...you're not Ellen, are you?"

"Tell you the truth, I don't know who I am. Can I come in?"

He stepped aside and let her in. She was wearing some of his old clothes which didn't fit her all that well, but she would've looked good in a cardboard box, he thought. "I uh..well I'm kinda attached to Ellen."

She giggled, a high-pitched childish giggle. "I know. You ain't got nothing to fear, she's much too practical to let me do anything stupid or careless." Lance thought it extremely peculiar for her to refer to herself in the third person. "I never thanked you for your help," she said softly, and he could feel Ellen more in her person.

"How did you find my house?"

"You left me your business card that first time we met. I kept it because I thought you were cute. Silly, huh," she snickered.

"No," he replied, scratching his brown-haired head. "I'm glad you did." 

"I, uh, I'm very sorry about Otis," Lance says. "But it was very dangerous for you coming here."

"Well, I had to say goodby before I left," she smiles. "You've done so much for me."

The reporter observes her for a minute or so, finally saying, "You remember everything as Ellen?"

"O' course I do," the blonde answers. "I have all my memory back," she murmurs, a faraway look in her eye as she remembered. Then she begins unbuttoning the flannel shirt he'd let her borrow.

Lance's deep blue eyes grow wide as she lets the shirt fall to the floor. Then she casually steps out of the old pants that were also his. "What do you I call you, then," he wonders, taking in her tall, lean feminine form. Many scars marked her all over, a roadmap of the tribulations and struggles she'd been through and lived. It still didn't detract from the effect her underwear-clad body had on him.

"Why don't you think of a name for me," she purrs, sliding her strong arms around his neck. His finely made hands roam down her back to her bottom, now only covered by her skimpy panties. "I know," he says, oddly inspired. "How about Angel? Or Angela?"

"I like tht," she says softly, kissing him and leaving the man breathless.

"God, what _are_ you," he moans a she starts relieving him of his clothes. She laughs.

"Don't be scared--Baby likes you too." Angela's bra goes flying. 

Ellen loosened the reigns on Baby somewhat, who wasted no time getting down to business. It had been a very long time since she'd had sex, and she seemed to make up for it that night. She knew exactly how to ride him; she raised up oh so slowly starting out and the right angle, then impale herself on his engorged organ. He didn't know a woman could move her hips like that, she did things to him that blew his mind. When she was riding him the first time he climaxed hard and fast, then she took her time with him. She dug her nails in his shoulders as she came with him the second time...

...Then he fucked her on top, in the floor, on the bed again and in the small bathroom adjacent to his bedroom. He was wrung out and spent after that, sure his testicles were going to shrivel up. Lance fell asleep where he fell in the bed with her blonde head on his chest, both nude. Angela dozed for a while, then slipped to the bathroom to clean herself up, and went in search of Dr. Lowell. He'd made a nest of blankets on the floor.

She slipped under the warm coziness, snuggling into the doctor's body heat. Baby's habits were manifesting themselves; after fucking/torturing her usual prey she would bed down with her foster-sibling Otis. It made her feel safe. 

At daybreak Baby's internal clock woke Angela up, smacking her lips. Lowell stirred and raised an eyebrow at the scantily clad woman curled up next to him. "Otis, what time is it," she yawns, scratching her tousled head.

"It's still darkthirty," he quips.

"We'd best go," she urges, crawling out from under the covers.

Lance awoke sore and drained the next morning and rolled over, felt nothing but bedding and opened his eyes. Angela wasn't there. Throwing on some pants he trudges through the house, she was gone, along with everyone else. "Dammit, Ellen," he grumbles out loud. He wanted to tell her good bye and good luck. Well, last night was Baby's way of saying good bye, he thought. It was a night he'd never forget.

Then new hybrid entity known as Angela wouldn't either. 

Two months later...

Angela awoke to the alarm clock buzzing, slammed it off and sat up in bed, smacking her lips. She felt fatigued, but not bad. She'd been feeling rather worn-out of late. The young woman limped her way to the kitchen in her and Freddy's simple abode to find her companion already up and sipping coffee. "Legs giving you much pain," he asks her idly, trying not to make an issue of it.

"Sometimes," she says sleepily. He'd been getting her pain pills to help but she didn't like taking them. They'd both settled into a semi-normal life in Mexico, and Angela had surprised the psychiatrist since as Ellen she'd learned Spanish under his nose from the nurse, Maria and fit right in. Well, as good as a white woman could under the circumstances. Angela worked in a deli and Lowell had gotten employment at a pharmacy. He didn't mind that sometimes Baby manifested strongly and at times called him Otis. He was still surprised that her psyche was still holding together, but somehow she was making it all work.

"Here, have some toast," he offers.

"Ugh, I'm not really hungry," she turns up her nose.

"Angela, come here and let me look at you," he says, and brooks no refusal. She shuffles to him.

He looks her over very intently, laying a hand on her stomach, then cupping a breast which was more full and tender. "Hey," she squawks. Aside from being tired she looked radiant and content.

"You're pregnant, doll," he tells her.

"What!"

"How long has it been since you had a period?"

"Uhh..a couple months," she says. She'd written it off as stress and nerves. What the fuck was she gonna do with a baby?

"I know it ain't mine," declares Freddy, who'd begun reflecting Angela's hillbilly accent. "It's that reporter's, isn't it?"

Ellen was very happy at the prospect...another Firefly at last. At least they wouldn't all die out. Baby was fearful of the responsibility and the loss of freedom. Angela would have to mediate the twain...Freddy wondered how this new situation would play out. 


End file.
